welcome!

note: y’all begged me in the comments so here’s part two. sorry for teasing but i have to make y’all wait for the good stuff until part three. gotta build the tension😛 but anyway, as always enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I think I could stack like”—you hold your hand up a few inches, palm flat, eyes squinting in mock calculation—“four and a half Krispy Kreme donuts on it.”

“Damn not even a round up? Crazy work,” he laughs, throwing his head back as the sound fills the room, warm and unfiltered. His hand squeezes your thigh, fingers pressing into soft flesh through the blanket, grounding you right back into him.

The conversation continues, slower now, thicker.

You’re on his living room sofa, the energy shifted but not settled. The sun has fully disappeared, leaving the city outside as a soft glow through the windows. Night has taken over—quiet, intimate, wrapping around the apartment like a secret. The low hum of distant traffic blends with the familiar rhythm of Living Single playing in the background, its laugh track occasionally cutting through your own softer laughter.

He’s sat manspread beside you, relaxed but present, while your legs drape across his lap, tangled with his under the shared blanket. The fabric is warm, trapping your body heat together, your skin occasionally brushing his through thin layers of clothing. Lamps cast a golden glow across the room, candles flickering gently—vanilla and something faintly woody—mixing with the lingering scent of food and his cologne.

He’s learned a lot about you.

More than most people ever get to.

You had gotten into all the taboos and mystical fantasies you’d always wanted to try, letting them spill from your lips with a mix of humor and honesty. Your favorite positions. How you have to have your back slightly propped up to finish while he’s eating you. Your preference of choking pressure. Even how to switch things up for anniversaries and special dates—details he listened to like they mattered, like you mattered.

And even though you’ve learned a few things about him, you still don’t feel prepared enough.

Preparation. Patience. Pleasure.

That’s what it was about for you.

The three P’s that made you the best lover.

If the tension became too much in this very moment, you didn’t feel confident enough that you would fuck him good enough. Of course, you loved receiving—but that was only half of the fun. Pleasing your partner, watching them react, feeling them lose control because of you—that intensified your experience even more.

And in turn, that made everything better.

For both of you.

“You never answered my question from earlier, sir,” you say, raising your eyebrow, your tone light but pointed.

“What was it?” he asks back, scrunching his eyebrows as he turns his head toward you, his hand still absentmindedly resting on your leg.

“Would you let me give you head while you’re driving?” you ask, keeping an innocent look in your eyes to tease.

The contrast between your expression and your words makes his lips part slightly.

He licks them slowly, sighing under his breath as he shifts his hips, adjusting himself like the thought alone made him uncomfortable in the best way. His fingers tighten briefly on your thigh before relaxing again.

He looks to the left, catching your eyes.

“I might in a tinted car, but the windows gotta be Michigan tint. Like straight up 0%, blacked out”

“They are not about to have me on TMZ getting my dick sucked on I-405,” he says, making you let out a loud laugh.

The image alone is ridiculous enough to send you over, your head tipping back as your laughter fills the room, louder than before.

“Boy shut up! You play too damn much, oh my god,” you continue to laugh, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as you lean slightly into him.

“Okay so that’s a yes? If I were to randomly give you head while you’re driving you wouldn’t stop me?” you ask, excitement slipping into your voice as you look at him for clarification.

There’s something lighter in your chest when you ask. Hopeful.

The other men you’d been with before never let you be as adventurous as Tyriq is letting you be. They’d always make you feel crazy or weird for expressing your true desires, like your curiosity was something to be toned down instead of explored.

The closest you’d gotten to feeling truly accepted was your roommate that you dated in college for five months. She understood what you needed—for the most part—but she liked someone more submissive. And although the sex was good, she ultimately needed more of a pillow princess.

That was not you.

You needed reciprocity. Energy. Hunger.

“I wouldn’t stop you,” he responds, giving you a shy smile.

But his eyes say something else entirely.

They linger on you a second longer than necessary—dark, curious, already imagining it.

Your hand travels to the back of his neck, fingertips sliding beneath the soft curls at his nape, just to feel his skin against yours again. The warmth there is grounding, steady, real. As charged as the conversation has become, it’s these quieter moments you keep coming back to—the soft, stolen touches, the unconscious way your bodies keep reaching for each other like it’s second nature now.

“What about your everyday, casual sex?” you ask, your voice softer this time, curiosity layered with something more thoughtful. You want to understand him, not just excite him.

He gets a bit nervous, and you notice it instantly.

His fingers drift under the blanket, catching the hem of your shirt, fidgeting with the fabric absentmindedly. Still, he answers.

“Morning sex is my favorite. Or anything where we can hold hands,” he admits.

“Everything feels more intimate in the morning.”

“So it’s about intimacy for you?” you ask.

“Most of the time yeah. I mean, there’s times for fucking but nothing is better than making love,” he explains.

His eyes don’t stay still as he says it—they wander, slowly tracing along your exposed collarbones, then higher… your neck… your ear. You feel it. The weight of it. Like he’s memorizing those spots.

Both places he’s already imagined kissing—slow, intentional, while he grinds in and out of you. 

“You look like you moan loud,” you state.

“Yeah I am kinda loud,” he says chuckling. “But I ain’t shy about that. I’m too grown to be quiet. Unless we have to be quiet.”

You smile, biting your lip, watching the way his mind starts to drift.

“Mhmm. And in what situation would we have to be quiet?” you ask, riling him up even more. You get a kick out of seeing him fantasize in real time.

And he had no issue answering that.

“The cliché childhood bedroom at your parents’ house thing,” he says, looking away slightly, trying not to seem too eager.

“You wanna fuck me in my childhood bedroom?” you ask with a smug smile.

“I mean, yeah?” he says back in a coy tone.

But there’s more behind that answer.

If only you knew the things he thought about doing to you while trying not to get caught.

Oh, he definitely wanted to. The thought alone flashes across his mind—having you pressed up against a wall, close, breath mixing, one hand covering your mouth just enough to keep things quiet while everything else between you stays anything but. The tension of it. The closeness. The way he’d have to lean in, voice low in your ear, steadying you, grounding you, keeping you right there with him. His teeth and lips nibbling and kissing at your earlobe while he whispers “Shhh, shhh you gotta be quiet for me baby. We can’t let your parents hear how good I’m fucking you in here, okay? Just breathe baby”. 

The idea lingers in his expression longer than he realizes.

“Tell me what else you want to do with me,” you say, your voice dipping lower, more intentional now.

Your fingers slide from his neck to his collar, tracing slowly, feeling the warmth beneath his shirt. Your body leans just a little closer without thinking.

“Masterbate in bed together. You tell me how to touch myself and I tell you how to touch yourself. And then we — we clean each other afterwards.”

His voice is quieter now, but steady.

You know exactly what he means without him needing to say more.

He wanted the two of you to lick the mess off of the other and taste yourselves on each other tongues. It’s the intimacy of it. The trust. The lack of hesitation.

You’re living for this.

You love how open he is. How willing he is to explore without shrinking himself. How he doesn’t treat desire like something that makes him less of a man—but something he can stand in fully.

“Is that for special occasions?” you ask, glancing at him through your lashes, referring back to the conversation you had three hours ago.

“That’s if we need to switch things up a lil bit,” he says. “I don’t have specific positions for special occasions cause I’m not a freak like you,” he adds jokingly.

That makes you laugh, shaking your head.

And honestly—that tracks. There was no specific special change for special days. He was on what you were on. If you wanted lick strawberry syrup off of his tip just because it was Valentine’s Day, he was down. He never got adventurous to his fullest potential in his previous relationships, so he hasn’t gotten to the point where he reserved special things for holidays or baecations. He wasn’t opposed to it, just never got around to it. Just waiting for the right person to bring it out.

You playfully slap his arm.

“You bout to be a freak like me. Give it a month or two. You’ll never be the same after big Pearline gets ahold of you. And good luck when I’m ovulating,” you joke back.

“I feel like I’m ovulating,” he exclaims, lifting his hips again dramatically.

“Boy what?” you shoot back, laughing, your body naturally folding closer into his again.

And even as the laughter settles, the energy doesn’t.

It lingers—warm, electric, waiting.

“I been hard for three hours,” he says, smirking. “But it’s okay. You gon fix it for me in a minute.”

His voice is low, edged with something heavier now—less teasing, more intent. He leans in, hand coming up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your bottom lip like he’s already thinking about kissing you before he actually does.

“Mm,” you release, kissing him back softly.

The kiss starts slow, almost deceptive in its gentleness. His lips press into yours with a quiet hunger, testing, tasting. His other hand travels to your neck, resting there—not squeezing yet, just holding, grounding you, reminding you of everything you’d just taught him.

“I’ll fix that,” you kiss again, softer this time.

“The minute after—” another kiss, lingering longer, your breath mixing with his.

“You put these fingers inside me,” you say, placing your hand over his, guiding it, your voice barely above a whisper now, “and make me cum.”

Your eyes lock with his, and something in his expression shifts completely.

This isn’t new territory for you two—but it feels new every time.

This is not the first time he’s fingered you. In fact, that was most of what the row of you have done. You have both given each other head once but you’d decided to put that on hold until things were official. Hands had become your language. Your preview. The way you both learned each other without rushing into anything else. You loved the way he let you guide him, the way your fingers would wrap around his wrist just to feel exactly how he moved inside of you, how he listened. And he—he was obsessed with your hands. The tension in them. The veins that pop out every time you squeeze him. The control. The way you knew what you were doing.

He doesn’t hesitate.

One hand stays at your neck, thumb resting just under your jaw, while the other slides down slowly, deliberately. His fingers trace the curve of your waist beneath the blanket, slipping lower, teasing at the waistband of your lounge pants like he’s savoring the moment.

His lips leave yours only to find your neck.

Slow kisses. Open-mouthed. Warm.

He drags them upward, taking his time, letting his breath linger against your skin before his lips follow. When he reaches your ear, he pauses just long enough for you to feel it—the heat, the anticipation.

“I can’t wait to taste you again,” he admits quietly. “Been too long.”

His voice alone is enough to make your stomach tighten.

His hand finally slips beneath the fabric.

You inhale sharply as his fingers meet heat, softness—proof of exactly how much you want him. He exhales low, almost like he felt it himself.

“See how wet I get for you?” you murmur, your hips pressing not so subtly into his hand.

He lets out a quiet, breathy sound in response, like he was the one being touched.

His lips find yours again, deeper this time and more urgent as he pulls off your pants and panties.

The flicker of candles, the sound of the TV, the city outside—it all fades into background noise as everything centers on touch. On breath. On the way his hand moves with more confidence now, more intention.

You lift your leg to spread yourself as much as you can for him. You needed him to have as much access as possible. To make sure every part of your core was touched and caressed. 

His lips left yours for a second as he dragged his middle and ring fingers up and down your core to cover himself in your slick. He backs up just enough to look you in the eyes as he pushes his toe fingers inside of you. Easily. No resistance. 

“Huhhh” you both moan in unison 

“Mmmm fuck” he whisper a curse at the end. The feeling of you around his fingers somehow feels even better after you telling him all of your desires. 

He begins straight away. No need for more build up. The creamy sounds of him in and out of you like a cello solo in a velvet room. 

Your hands find him again—his arm, his wrist—holding, grounding, needing to feel every movement.

Your head tilts back slightly, your grip tightening around his wrist as your breathing changes.

“Mmm—” the sound slips out before he can stop it.

He watches you.

Really watches you.

You look down to see his fingers thrusting inside of you. The pearl colored cream shining his fingers. He softly squeezes at your neck just how you like all while very gentle swiping at your clit. 

“I love playing with this pussy baby,” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent. “You like it when I play with you pretty?—hm?”

“I love— how deep you are uughh” your words break slightly as you exhale, your body reacting faster than you can keep up with. “Yes… just like that.”

He doesn’t rush. He continues to pump inside of you tenderly 

Every movement feels intentional, like he’s listening more than he’s acting. Adjusting. Learning. Paying attention to every small reaction, every shift in your breathing, every tightening of your grip.

And the way his hand stays at your neck—steady, gentle, exactly how you showed him—only makes it worse in the best way.

Everything builds.

Slow. Heavy. Unavoidable.

And neither of you even thinks about stopping.

Your inner muscles tighten around him as he continues, steady and intentional, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Keep going after I cum,” you say, grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him forward until your foreheads press together, breath mingling, shared and uneven.

“Whatever you want, baby. I got you,” he responds immediately.

There’s no hesitation in him. None.

Your grip tightens on the back of his neck as his hand tightens at the front of yours, just like you showed him—firm enough to ground you, gentle enough to keep you safe. The rhythm between you deepens, your body responding in waves you can’t hold back anymore. Your hips move instinctively. The feeling of your pulse racing into his hand made him light headed. He wanted nothing more but to feel you cum around his dick instead but this was more than enough for now. 

“Oh yeah… I can feel you,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost breathless now. “Give it to me… let me feel you.”

Something in the way he says it pushes you right there. He added firm pressure to your clit to finally bring you over the edge.

“Uuh—my god—” your voice breaks, your body tightening as the feeling crests, spilling over in a rush that makes your back arch into him.

“Please keep going, Tyriq… please—”

You don’t even need to ask.

He follows you through it, just like he said he would—steady, attentive, not rushing you out of it. Your body trembles against him, your hand clamping around his neck as you bring his face into your neck . Your breathing uneven, your body slowly coming back down.

He let you catch your breath before kissing up your neck, the side of your face, to your forehead before sitting up slowly. He gently removed his fingers from you with a soft squelch and a soft whimper from himself. He did not hesitate to lick the rest of you off of his fingers viciously. 

You take a second to catch your breath.

Then you lean in, pressing a slow kiss to his lips, then another to his cheek, his jaw, up to his forehead—soft, grounding touches that contrast everything that just passed between you.

When he finally leans back, there’s a look in his eyes you haven’t seen before.

Something dazed. Aroused.

“Gimme some baby,” you murmur, your voice low, eyes clouded with arousal

He leaned back in, tongue out for an open mouth kiss and you followed suit, reaching your tongue out too. This kiss was searing. Hungry and ready for more. And as much as you wanted to continue to taste yourself on him, you had work to do.

You shift, pushing him back just enough to straddle his thigh, your body settling against him with intention. His hands involuntarily came to your bare ass, caressing and massaging. Fingers spreading, gripping just slightly as he adjusts to you.

Your one hand rested on collarbones, fingers holding his chin steady so that he had no chance to look away. Your other hand wasted no time in gathering slick from yourself, releasing his rock hard dick out of his clothes and stroking slowly. The tip, already leaking and full. 

“Look at me, Tyriq,” you say, your tone firm but soft around the edges.

He does.

Immediately.

Locked in.

There’s something about the way you’re looking at him now—focused, controlled—that makes his chest rise a little faster.

“Keep your hands on my hips and make me grind on your thigh until cum again,” you say. “If you stop, I stop.”

“You wanna cum baby?” you ask.

“Yes,” he exhales. “Please.”

You nod once. “Be good for me.”

And he listens.

Of course he does.

His hands guide your hips slowly at first, tentative—then more sure as he finds the rhythm, the motion pulling a soft sound from your throat. You meet him halfway, moving with him, but not giving everything. Making him work for it.

Making him stay present.

His grip tightens slightly, breath catching as he watches you—really watches you—like he’s trying to memorize every movement, every shift in your expression.

Your hand wrapped firmly around his shaft as you stroke his whole length up and down a few times, using his pre cum and your slick to slide up and down him. He bites his bottom lip letting out a loud groan. 

“Oouh” he releases keeping eye contact with you. 

His fingers push into you harder adding more pressure to your clit. You let out a sharp moan from the sensitivity.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, your voice softer now but no less commanding.

He doesn’t.

He can’t.

He wouldn’t dare to ruin this beautiful moment. Your bare, beautiful body, using him to get off. The way you’re holding his face towards you to make sure he catches every grind, twist and stroke. He could die just from the sight of this. 

The tension builds again—different this time, deeper, more shared. Your breathing syncs, your movements finding each other in a way that feels almost instinctual now.

You begin to stroke harder as you imagine the next time you taste him.

“I wanna suck it so bad baby. I can’t wait to have you in my mouth again” you say practically drooling onto yourself.

The sound of your aching voice yearning for him makes his neck give out. He tries to throw his head back but you catch it and hold his head up to look at you. 

“Uh uh. Look at me " you moan “You feel how we’re pulsing baby? We’re almost there. Just keep going and so will I” you say, eye brows scrunched and eyelids heavy. 

You were almost giving up yourself but you knew how heavenly this climax would be. You couldn’t succumb to exhaustion. 

“Oh my god…” his voice breaks slightly, low in his chest. “I’m— Ouh— gonna cum” he groans out 

“Ahh me too baby fuck” you breathe out, your head tilting forward, eyes fluttering but still trying to stay locked on his.

“Stay with me,” you whisper.

And he does.

Right there with you.

Your sounds of pleasure begin to harmonize and blend together as you both reach your climax together. 

“Mmm yeess” your voice vibrates as your hips shake on top of him.

Him fingers grip your right as his arousal releases into your hand and onto his abdomen 

The moment crests again—not rushed, not chaotic—but full. Intentional. Shared.

You both still for a second after, breathing heavy, the air between you warm and thick with everything that just passed.

“Fuck…” he exhales, leaning back, his head tipping toward the ceiling before he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Something is wrong with you, girl.”

You let out a breathy laugh in return, your body still draped over his, your hand resting lazily against his chest now, feeling it rise and fall.

He had never let himself be submissive like that before, never given someone that kind of control—and as unfamiliar as it was, he couldn’t deny how right it felt. He had never cum so much in his life.

~~~

It had been about nine days since the two of you had that night—not sex officially, but the closest you’d gotten to it with each other. Close enough to shift something. Close enough to linger.

And it lingered.

Not just in your body, but in the way you thought about him at random times of the day. The way your mind would drift back to his hands, his voice, the way he looked at you like he was learning you in real time.

Life, however, didn’t pause for tension like that.

The two of you had work obligations that pulled you in opposite directions, making it impossible to carve out time for another proper date. Still, neither of you let the connection fade.

If anything, it stretched.

You FaceTimed late into the night, both of you half-laying in bed, voices softer, conversations looser. Sometimes you’d just sit there, looking at each other, smiling at nothing in particular. Other times, you’d talk about everything—travel, food, childhood stories—sending TikToks back and forth about places you had to visit together. You went to lunch a couple times just to keep the connection fresh until he was officially back. 

It started to feel… natural.

Easy.

Like something that had already settled into your routine without asking permission.

And then there were the texts.

Chaotic. Unfiltered. Very you.

After the whole situation with wack ass Klay Thompson and angel queen Megan Thee Stallion blew up, you didn’t hesitate to give him a good talking to:

You - Light bright, lanky ass, biracial hoe. Lay low for a while. Your bum ass white skinned associate betrayed my queen. Gonna have to fuck every man I see for the next week💋.

Him - The fuck does that have to do with me?

You - Guilty by category. The only difference is that you’re not a washed athlete who doesn't know that Aquarius isn’t a water sign. 

Him - Good thing I don’t come back for two more weeks

There was a pause after that.

Then—

Him - Date at Carbone that Thursday. Dress casual. And I mean real casual. Not your casual

You could practically hear his tone through the screen—firm, but amused.

You - Don’t act like you don’t like the running errands heel🙄

Him - I do but that’s not the vibe. Be casual.

Another pause.

Shorter this time.

Him - Call you tomorrow sexy❤️

And just like that, the distance between you didn’t feel so far anymore.

~~~

You arrived at Carbone hand in hand, your fingers naturally laced together like they’d done this a hundred times before. This time, you actually listened—you dressed casual. Actually casual. No heels that clicked with attitude, no outfit that demanded attention the second you walked in. Just soft, effortless, still you… but toned down.

And he noticed immediately.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles as you walked in, a quiet approval, a subtle thank you.

The restaurant was dim, glowing in that signature low amber light that made everything feel a little more intimate, a little more expensive, a little more important. The scent of garlic, butter, and red sauce lingered in the air, blending with faint cologne and polished wood. Silverware clinked softly, conversations hummed around you—but your table felt like its own world.

By the time your appetizer was long gone, you were leaned into the table, completely lost in him.

Tonight felt… different.

Still warm. Still easy. But deeper.

More intentional.

Your hand rested in his across the table, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the back of it as he looked at you—not just atyou, but through you, like he was trying to settle something within himself.

“Is that something that would eventually make you not like me after a while?” he asks.

There’s a softness to his voice, but also something careful. Measured.

“Tyriq, listen,” you say gently, squeezing his hand just a little. “I’m sure it will be hard navigating all the eyes on us in the beginning, but I’m sure it’ll die down after a while. I don’t know exactly how things will affect me, but I’ve never been one to crumble under pressure.”

Your tone is calm, grounded—confident in a way that steadies him.

Because that’s what this is really about.

Him.

Making sure you won’t get hurt because of him.

He knows how heavy that kind of attention can be. How invasive. And the last thing he wants is to bring that into your life and watch it weigh you down.

“Imma take your word for it,” he says, nodding slightly. “But you can’t get mad at me later if we wake up to a blog saying I’m secretly married to Megan.”

You squint your eyes at him instantly.

“Keep my queen’s name out of that rice-skinned mouth, boy,” you shoot back, and he breaks into laughter, head dropping for a second as his shoulders shake.

The tension eases—but not completely.

Because he keeps asking questions.

Small ones. Big ones. Subtle ones disguised as jokes.

And you answer them all without hesitation.

To you, it feels natural. Necessary, even. Of course he’d want to be sure—he’s lived a life where people approach him with intentions, not feelings. You don’t take it personally.

But to him?

These are his final checkpoints.

His last attempts to find a reason to hold back.

And he can’t find one.

Not in you.

Not in the way you speak, or think, or carry yourself.

For the first time in a long time, the idea of something real doesn’t feel distant. It feels… possible.

Because of you.

~~~

When you finally step outside, the night air hits your skin—dry, cool, carrying the faint scent of the city settling down for the evening. The street glows in soft orange from the lamps above, shadows stretching long across the pavement.

You start walking toward the car, still close, still connected—

—but he gently pulls you in another direction.

“Babe, the car is that wa—”

“We’re going somewhere else right now. Just come with me.”

There’s something in his tone that makes you pause.

Not urgent.

But intentional.

So you follow.

He leads you toward a nearby park, quieter than the street you left behind. The sounds of the city dull into a distant hush, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the faint creak of branches swaying overhead.

The trees are blooming. Deep red petals catching under the orange streetlights, glowing against the dark blue sky like something out of a painting.

It’s beautiful.

Unexpected.

“You wanna play on the swings or something? ’Cause I’m down,” you smile, squeezing his hand.

“I am not trynna play on the swing right now,” he chuckles.

He stops walking.

Right in front of a large tree, its branches heavy with red petals.

He turns to you, gently holding your arms at your sides, grounding you in place as he looks down at you.

Really looks at you.

He exhales.

“I had a great night tonight,” he says. “I’ve had a great time with you for the past two and a half months.”

Your eyebrows scrunch immediately.

Oh I know he’s not breaking up with me right now…

Your hand instinctively comes up to his chest, pressing lightly, feeling his heartbeat.

Fast.

Too fast.

Okay… he’s either terrified or really excited…

“I appreciate how much you balance me out,” he continues, voice a little tighter now. “And how you encourage me to express my deeper emotions freely. I think you’re perfect for me and—”

He exhales again, cutting himself off.

Then gently turns you around.

Your eyes follow the motion, scanning the ground—

And then you finally see it.

Red petals, scattered carefully across the pavement.

Spelling out:

May I be your boyfriend? ❤️

Your breath catches instantly.

“May I be your boyfriend, baby?” he asks, voice shaking just enough to give him away. That nervous smile spreading across his face, dimples deep, eyes searching yours for an answer.

You inhale sharply, your hand flying to your chest.

“Oh my God… oh my God… oh my goodness—”

Your vision blurs as tears well up, spilling over before you can stop them.

You turn and bury your face into his chest, clutching onto him like you might float away otherwise.

“Yes. Yes, you can, Tyriq,” you say, your voice breaking as you cry into him.

His arms wrap around you instantly.

Secure. Firm. Protective.

One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers brushing gently over your cornrows.

“Why are you crying? What’s wrong baby?” he asks, concern slipping into his voice.

You pull back just enough to look up at him, your eyes glassy, lashes wet.

“I thought you were breaking up with me,” you admit.

He blinks.

“What? No—no,” he says quickly, almost laughing in disbelief. “I want you to be mine. You’re mine now.”

He presses a soft kiss to your hair.

“And I’m yours.”

He pulls you back into him, rocking you gently side to side.

And in that moment—

wrapped up in his arms, under dim streetlights, surrounded by red petals and quiet night air—

you feel safe.

Certain.

Held.

Your boyfriend’s arms.

note: hiii babies!! it’s been a long while and im kinda rusty but here’s the tyriq fic i promised:) i had a dream about this so in true notdeonn fashion, i had a write something about it. y’all i used my school knowledge and i had to do RESEARCH for this😭 so please enjoy and as always tell me what you think🤍!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So you’re telling me, you’re not good at roleplay?” you ask with a surprised laugh, the sound warm and bright as it slips into the evening air.

“It’s hard to get into character when it’s not for a professional reason,” he laughs back.

The two of you sit side by side on the balcony of his Los Angeles apartment, shoulders nearly touching, close enough that every subtle movement is noticed. This is your fifth date, though it feels like something deeper than numbers now—something settled and growing roots.

The city stretches out beneath you in ribbons of amber light, traffic humming far below like a distant tide. A soft breeze rolls through, carrying the scent of weed from somewhere unseen, mixing with melted mozzarella, basil, and the earthy richness of truffle oil rising from the table between you. Overhead, the sky is painted in bruised purples and fading gold, the last of the sun melting behind glass towers.

Things had gone better than you ever expected.

You had a history of being deceived by evil, tall biracials, to say the least, and because of that, your caution had become second nature. You wore it like armor. Sharp edges, narrowed eyes, measured words. But he had never tried to bulldoze through your walls. He had simply stood there, patient and steady, until you chose to crack the door open yourself.

And once you did, he proved to be genuine. Sincere. Sensitive in the most endearing way. The kind of sensitive that noticed when your smile was forced, when your voice dropped half an octave because something was wrong, when you pretended to be fine but twisted your rings with restless fingers. He was relatable too—easy in the way your dearest friend would be, someone who made silence feel comfortable instead of heavy.

He hadn’t been completely sure about you at first, either.

He liked friendly women, women who smiled easily and welcomed warmth without suspicion. You, on the other hand, had met him with a cool stare and answers clipped short enough to end conversations before they began. Rightfully so. But he had seen behind your crumbly exterior. Bit away at it day by day with patience, humor, and those earnest eyes that always seemed to look a little deeper than most people bothered to.

And eventually, he found the soft center that was truly you.

Now he glances over at you, smiling to himself as if he knows exactly how far you’ve both come. His knee brushes yours for a fleeting second, then stays there. Casual enough to deny on paper, international enough to make your pulse skip.

Although the two of you haven’t hit all the milestones he wants to before officially popping the big boyfriend question, he knows his heart is leading him to the right place. There’s a certainty in the way he looks at you now, a quiet confidence that doesn’t need to announce itself.

There is only one thing you haven’t done together.

During the past two months of getting to know each other, intimacy has not been at the forefront. There have been kisses that lingered long after goodbye. Make outs that left lipstick smudged and breathing uneven. Touches that started innocent and turned charged. Caresses slow enough to memorize skin. Grips and grabs that said what mouths politely withheld.

But nothing full out.

He preferred to take things slow, and truthfully, that patience had only made everything between you burn hotter. Every delayed moment became its own kind of foreplay.

And you’d told him that you always liked to have a conversation beforehand. Just to know what he likes and what you like. Like an introductory thesis, but for sex.

You’d had one very brief conversation where you found out he has a soft foot fetish.

“I don’t wanna see not one of my toes in that mouth boy. I’m serious,” you say as he laughed over FaceTime.

The memory makes you smirk now, and he catches it instantly.

He didn’t want that to be the only conversation had, so he planned a date. A sex talk date.

He called it “Intro to WGFT (we getting fucked tonight) 101” in the text he sent five days ago.

Just you and him on the balcony of his LA apartment. Mocktails sweating beads of condensation onto the table. Margherita pizzas with cheese still stretching in delicate strings. Truffle fries dusted in parmesan and rosemary. The clink of ice in glasses. The low music spilling from inside the apartment. His cologne warm and woodsy every time the breeze shifts your way.

And beneath all of it, humming quietly between each shared glance and teasing smile. Anticipation.

“Aight but you haven’t told me anything about you,” he says, shifting his body slightly to the right so he can look at you fully.

The movement is small, but it changes everything. His knee presses firmer against yours, his shoulder angled toward you now, attention sharpened like a blade. The city noise below fades into a distant murmur.

You try to hide your smile by biting your lip, but it only makes him pay more attention.

His eyes drop to your mouth instantly, lingering there for a beat too long. You can practically feel the warmth of his gaze tracing the curve of your lip, the faint indent your teeth leave behind. It sends a pulse low through your stomach.

“Nah nah, don’t get shy on me now.” he says, gently grabbing your chin to face him again.

His fingers are warm, calloused just enough to feel masculine against your skin. He turns your face back toward him with surprising tenderness, thumb brushing once along your jaw. The touch is light, but possessive enough to make your breath catch.

“Okay well I don’t know where to start.”

Your pupils enlarge immediately. A nervous giggle slips out of you, airy and bright. You’re suddenly too excited to tell him about any of your fantasies from memory, thoughts crowding over each other so fast they tangle together.

“Mmm, what’s your favorite three positions?” he asks, genuinely curious but still trying to tease you.

The corner of his mouth lifts. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Uuum…” You look up for a second to think. “Depends what on what kind of sex I’m having.”

He doesn’t say anything back, just raises his eyebrows, wanting you to elaborate, while resting his hand on your upper thigh.

The weight of it nearly steals your train of thought.

His palm is broad and heavy through the fabric, thumb idly stroking once near the seam. Heat blooms beneath his touch, spreading inward. You glance down at his hand, then back up at him.

You look him in the eyes and exhale with a flirty grin.

“Regular ‘routine’ sex? Speedbump, missionary and spooning,” you say, trying your hardest not to release the tension building between your legs.

His expression darkens with interest, lips parting slightly as if he’s filing each word away.

“But for special occasions—”

“What’s considered a special occasion?” he interrupts.

“Date night, after a formal event, anniversary, holidays……” you look him in the eye as he nods in understanding.

“Bear hug, slope, kneeling saint,” you almost whisper, getting lost in the thoughts of him doing exactly that to you.

The names alone feel decadent leaving your mouth. His hand stills on your thigh.

“I’m gonna be so honest—don’t know none of them except bear hug baby,” he chuckles slightly.

You suck your teeth shortly. “Tyriq.”

You look at him with a straight face to try and get a real laugh out of him, but he was dead serious.

His face remains calm, brows lifted like he’s waiting for a lecture.

“Oh you’re for real?” you ask.

“Deadass,” he responds back.

You lift your legs to rest atop his thicker, longer ones and move his hand up on your hip. You want to get closer while you explain. Try and make him sweat a little bit.

The new position brings you flush against him. His body heat surrounds you immediately. Your calf brushes his shin; the muscles in his thigh tense beneath your legs. His hand spreads wider over your hip like it belongs there.

“Slope is…..kinda like missionary but instead of you laying between my legs, you’re kneeling in front of me, I’m laying knees to chest with my feet resting on your abdomen. And your hands on my knees.”

He begins to rub at your hip, staring deeply at you, taking in all that you’re saying.

It turns you on how you can tell he’s taking notes for future reference.

His gaze doesn’t waver once. Focused. Intent. Like every detail matters.

“And where are your hands?” he asks, also imagining himself inside of you like this.

His voice has dropped lower now, roughened at the edges.

“Any part of you I can reach,” you respond, trying to calm your heart to not seem too eager.

Truthfully, you wanted to skip the convo now and show him exactly how you wanted him.

“I like that one more after my second orgasm. Makes me finish fast,” you continue as your core begins to burn with desire.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Kneeling saint?” he asks, wanting to hear your voice say more erotic things to get his mind going again.

Your eyes travel down to his legs.

“You’re um—kneeling, behind me and I’m sitting on top of you. Facing the same way. Maybe a bicep around my neck,” you say as you lick your lips, and your gaze and soft hand finds his swollen arms.

Your fingertips skim over the firmness there, tracing the line of muscle beneath his shirt. He inhales sharply through his nose.

“You like that?” he asks.

“Yeah. I love that,” you say, finding his entranced eyes again.

Something electric passes between you in the silence after.

“And bear hug?” he finally asks.

“You said you know bear hug?” you respond.

“But I don’t know how you like it,” he replied back.

This makes both of your heartbeats flush with arousal.

If you were more into public sex, you’d have him bend you over on this balcony.

“Okay well obviously I’m on top but you gotta have a strong hold on me. Both arms squeezing me close to your chest so I can’t go anywhere. And my ear close to your mouth so I can hear everything—”

“You talk dirty?” he interrupts calmly.

“Filthy,” you say back sharply, not breaking eye contact for a second.

The moment sends shivers down his back.

He’s growing hard underneath your legs, but he’s not ashamed about it. You both knew how much this was turning him on, and he wanted you to know he desired to please you in any way you wanted him to.

His hand tightens once on your hip, almost involuntarily.

“That’s also why I like speedbump so much much. I want you in my ear.”

You pause to let your desires linger in the air.

The breeze moves around you both, carrying the scent of basil, salt, and city heat, but neither of you notices anything except the charged silence now living inches between your mouths.

“You gon wear me out! I can tell already,” he laughs, making you laugh too.

The sound of it is rich and easy, rolling out of him so naturally it pulls the same from you. His shoulders shake, eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks. The city lights behind him blur for a second because all you can focus on is how handsome he looks when he laughs without restraint.

“Why would you say that oh my god,” you laugh back.

“The way your eyes just lit up? I’m gettin scared a little bit,” he laughs into your neck.

He leans forward as he says it, voice muffled against your skin, warm breath fanning over the sensitive spot below your ear. The scrape of his stubble sends a shiver racing down your spine. His nose brushes lightly along your throat as if he’s smelling your perfume, your lotion, you. It’s teasing, but intimate enough to make your thighs press together.

“Don’t be scared of me baby, I just know what makes me feel good,” you say back softly, rubbing the back of his head.

Your fingers slide into the short curls at his nape, nails grazing lightly across his scalp. He hums at the touch—low and pleased—leaning into your hand for a second before sitting back up.

He straightens to ask another question, but his eyes linger on your mouth first.

“No backshots?” he asks, surprised.

“Mm no, not for me. Not unless I’m getting bent over a surface of some kind. Like a counter or table,” you explain, sipping your maracaibo mocktail “But you like em though don’t you?” you ask, smirking.

“For special occasions,” he smirks and winks, showing his dimples.

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself.

“Would you let me choke you?” he asks, making you giggle with joy.

The question leaves him calmer than expected, almost casual, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his expression. Like he’s trying to learn every language your body speaks.

“I’m so glad you asked that. I love teaching guys how to choke me correctly.”

“Oh there’s a wrong way?”

“Absolutely. Let me show you first and then you can try it on me,” you say softly, putting your hand around his neck.

He looks surprised that you’re going to show him on his own neck, but he enjoys this more than he wants to admit. Truthfully, he’s fantasized about you riding him while choking him. He had grown very fond of your hands, to say the least. You always wondered why he’d ask for hand jobs a lot.

That’s why.

“Okay, so here’s what you don’t do,” you say as you squeeze all of your fingers around all sides of his neck for two seconds, making him turn red a bit and let out a small cough.

“That is strangulation. That’s brain damage. That’s serious injury. That’s death,” you say seriously, easing your eyebrows to let him know you were serious.

He nods immediately, eyes wide, fully attentive now.

“In the middle here—” you say, tracing a line down the center of his neck.

Your fingertip glides over warm skin, and his throat bobs beneath your touch.

“That’s your trachea. If you squeeze that too hard, I can’t breathe. No oxygen to my brain, I’m dead.”

“And here on the sides,” you touch both sides of his large neck.

“Carotid artery. If you squeeze that too hard, no blood to my brain. I’m dead again,” you say, giggling a bit at your own dry humor.

But he doesn’t laugh.

He is fully paying attention, jaw set, eyes moving between your hand and your face to make sure he knows exactly how to please you when the time comes.

“Here’s what you do—apply very light pressure with your thumb and middle finger. Only enough to where you can feel my pulse. The rest of your fingers are just resting.”

“Okay now try on me,” you say, releasing his neck and grabbing his hand.

His palm is warm and broad inside yours. Bigger than your hand by enough to make your stomach flip.

“It’s okay, don’t be scared,” you say as you see him hesitate a bit before placing his hand around your neck.

Your chest rises and falls quickly. You try your very best not to let out a soft moan as you feel his fingers cover nearly the entire curve of your neck. His touch is cautious, almost reverent.

“Okay now squeeze,” you direct him, knowing he wouldn’t do it himself.

He stops squeezing abruptly when he feels your pulse, just like you said.

“How does that feel baby?” he asks, never looking away from your eyes.

His voice is quieter now. Rougher.

“Perfect. So good,” you respond, licking your lips.

His gaze follows the movement of your tongue.

He keeps his hand there and slowly pulls you onto his lips.

He couldn’t wait another second.

The kiss lands deep and hungry, mouths meeting with the kind of urgency that had been building all night. His lips are soft but insistent, parting yours immediately as he angles his head to taste you better. The hand at your throat loosens into a cradle, thumb resting under your jaw while he kisses you like he’s been imagining it for weeks.

A raspy groan spills from him into your mouth, vibrating against your lips.

You grip his shirt tight in your fists and kiss him back just as hard.

The fabric bunches beneath your fingers as he deepens the kiss, tongue brushing against yours in slow, intoxicating strokes. He nibbles and massages at your bottom lip the way you like, catching it gently between his teeth before soothing it with another kiss. Every pause lasts only long enough to breathe before he comes back for more.

His other hand slides over your thigh, rubbing slow circles that make your skin spark beneath your clothes. The warmth of his palm contrasts the cool night air. Your body leans into his without thinking, chasing more of him.

The world around you disappears—the traffic below, the breeze, the music inside, the food cooling untouched on the table.

There is only the taste of him, the scent of his cologne and skin, the sound of his breathing mixing with yours, the way he keeps kissing you like he has something to prove.

For you to have almost hated him at first, you sure could not wait to fuck him now.

tag list: @dexastres @coffeevacation @goodgyalgonebadd @kennaskorner @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas @amirawrah @kyoshithewriter @kjlovesbigwilo @babyylili @bbgkoo

note: merry christmas y’all😛 i love hugo’s lips and i wanna kiss him for like 4 hours straight, so here you go. it’s been sitting i my drafts for like 3 weeks lol. oh btw, when i write for anyone who has a foreign accent, i hope you guys are reading it in their accent😭. anyway, as always, enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His lips moved against yours with a softness that felt almost unreal—plush, warm, patient, as though he were learning the shape of you by heart. Each kiss seemed to bloom slowly, like he wanted to stretch the moment until time itself grew heavy and syrup-slow. His hands found your waist, fingers firm but reverent, guiding you backward step by unhurried step until your spine brushed the edge of his bed.

Your breath tangled with his.

Your heart tangled with his.

Everything felt slow, molten, inevitable.

Your hand slid toward his hip almost on instinct, fingertips grazing the waistband of his sweats. The cotton of his boxers whispered against your knuckles—soft, clean, warm from his skin beneath. You tugged him closer by nothing more than that small touch, and he exhaled a sound that trembled against your mouth.

You caught his bottom lip gently between your teeth, drawing a low, breathy hum from him. He answered you with a kiss that deepened by degrees—press, retreat, return—until your soft moans folded together, matching the slow rhythm you always seemed to fall into without thinking, like a song the two of you had known long before you ever touched.

Nothing about this was new.

Not the pull, not the heat, not the way he melted when you kissed him like this.

But this—this pace—was new for him.

Hugo was used to moments snapping open quickly, like doors thrown wide. He was used to desire that rushed, that yielded, that followed wherever he led. Always his timing, his tempo, his want.

But with you… he had learned to slow his hunger.

With you, he was learning patience he never knew he had.

Of course you wanted him—your body made that clear every time you kissed him like you were trying to drink the air from his lungs—but you wanted something more than urgency. You wanted the terrain between you explored inch by inch. You wanted the anticipation, the near-touches, the breaths shared too closely. You wanted time.

For two weeks now, you’d come over, sink into each other’s mouths, let hands skim and wander and learn—until the moment the heat grew too sharp. Then you’d slip away, breathless and warm, leaving him on the edge of something he never reached.

At first, it frustrated him.

He wasn’t used to stopping.

He wasn’t used to wanting and not taking.

But now… now he savored it.

He liked the slow unraveling.

He liked the way kissing you felt like hours wrapped in silk.

He liked that you made him wait—not out of denial, but out of intention.

Out of depth.

In a world where everything came too easily, where desire was fast and hollow and always within reach, you made him feel something he didn’t expect:

You made him linger.

You made him feel the gravity of wanting you.

You made him need the moments before anything else.

And God, did he love the way that felt.

He guided you down onto the bed with a tenderness that felt almost ceremonial, his body following yours in a slow descent until he hovered over you—arms braced on either side, legs framing you as though he were building a world where only the two of you existed.

“Scoot back, bébé,” he murmured, tapping your thigh with a gentle command.

You kept your fingers curled around the collar of his shirt as you slid upward, never breaking eye contact. The headboard met your back, and before you could settle, his hand slipped behind your neck, easing you into the pillows as you tugged him down again.

“Come here,” you breathed, teeth catching your lower lip, a tiny smirk playing at your mouth.

He obeyed instantly, falling back into your kiss like he’d been waiting for permission to breathe. His hands roamed with controlled urgency—gripping your waist, your hips, the edge of your thigh—as though he couldn’t decide what part of you he needed most.

Your legs wrapped around him, drawing him closer, and he caught them in his palms, holding you with a firm, almost protective gentleness. One of your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the warm curls there, while the other lingered low on his waist, brushing repeatedly against the soft, heated space between you as his slow rocking pulled your bodies into a rhythm.

“Keep your hand there,” he whispered, breath warm against your cheek.

His own hand rose, fingers tracing the line of your throat before resting lightly against it—not to restrain, but to feel you. To feel your pulse.

The flutter beneath his fingertips quickened, blooming against his touch like a secret you couldn’t hide.

A soft sound escaped you—half breath, half need—and he answered with a sharp inhale, his body reacting before he could temper it. Even after two weeks of moments just like this, he still wasn’t used to how intensely you affected him.

How just the sound of your voice, or the way your heartbeat stuttered when he touched you, could send heat rushing through him so swiftly.

He lived for that shift—

that quickening,

that unguarded response,

that proof written in your pulse that you wanted him just as deeply.

And tonight, it hit him again, settling low and warm in his chest:

He would wait as long as you asked.

As long as it took.

Because these moments—slow, breathless, aching—

were becoming his favorite kind of high.

This time felt different—charged, fragile, intentional.

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t pull away.

You didn’t break the moment the way you had every time before.

Instead, you let the quiet between you grow warm and electric, letting the space inside your ribs open for him.

After nearly an hour of kissing—slow, drawn-out, addictive—you felt something inside you shift.

Your body wasn’t just humming; it was pleading.

Not the kind of need you could tamp down and tend to later.

Not the kind you could soothe with your own hands once you were home and alone.

This time, you needed him.

“Hugo…” you moaned, breaking the kiss, your lips brushing his as you spoke.

He lifted his head just slightly, eyes fluttering open—hazy, heavy, bliss-soft.

“Hm?” he hummed, the sound low and sleepy, like he’d been drifting somewhere warm with you.

“I want… you to touch me,” you whispered, keeping your eyes locked to his, letting him see the truth in them.

You didn’t blink.

You didn’t hesitate.

You wanted him to know you meant every syllable.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—soft, not arrogant—but his response came quickly, voice dropping into something low and reverent.

“Want me to touch you, hm?…”

He brushed his thumb along your jaw, slow enough to ask again without words.

“Where?” he asked gently, already knowing, already feeling the answer in the air between you but needing the confirmation.

You took his hand and guided it down, both your hands moving together to the heat blooming between your thighs.

Even through your clothes, you felt his breath catch.

“Here?” he murmured.

“Mhm…” you hummed, your hips giving the smallest answering roll.

“Here,” he repeated, voice nearly a whisper. “Okay, bébé.”

He licked his lips, anticipation softening the edges of his expression.

Nothing rushed.

Nothing greedy.

Just want—deep, focused want.

“How you want it? Fast? Soft?” he asked, searching your face, waiting for the exact instruction that would let him give you everything you were asking for.

Your body answered before your mouth did—your hips rocking again, the tiniest movement, but enough to send heat spiraling through your spine.

“Soft… please,” you said, breath shaky with need.

He didn’t make you wait another second.

His hand slipped into your shorts with slow, deliberate care—knuckles brushing your skin, fingers gliding over warmth as they dipped beneath your panties.

You opened your legs a bit wider, giving him space, giving yourself over to the moment.

His breath hitched softly.

You felt it ghost over your cheek, warm, hungry, reverent.

He leaned down, lips grazing the shell of your ear, and as his fingers found your center—bare and velvet-soft—your breath stuttered like it was trying to escape your body.

He touched you gently, exactly as you asked—soft strokes that made your eyelids flutter and your back arch instinctively.

“Is this how you like it?” he whispered, his voice a warm curl in your ear.

“Yes…” you whispered, barely audible, “just like that, Hugo…”

His lips drifted down your neck, slow enough to feel every breath you took.

He kissed you like he was tasting you with his mouth open—soft presses, slow drags, carefully placed nibbles that matched the rhythm of his hand.

Your fingers dug into his biceps, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your palms.

He felt solid, warm, grounding, and gently overwhelming.

“Mmh… yes… that feels so good—” you groaned softly, your voice catching on the end.

He exhaled sharply through his nose—quiet, aroused—but kept his movements slow, careful, intentional.

His fingers pressed a little more firmly, moving in gentle circles that made the heat coil low and deep inside you.

He felt your pulse through your thighs, felt your breath stutter, felt your hips rise to meet him.

“Look so good like this. Pretty girl” he murmured, kissing the curve of your jaw.

He loved the way your body reacted—how nothing about this was performative or rushed.

Just real.

Just you.

Just want.

Your pulse fluttered beneath his touch—wild, blooming—and he felt it, soaked in it, drank it.

His voice dropped to a low murmur by your ear.

“Can’t wait to be inside of you”

You were already falling into a trance—your breath uneven, your voice a soft, constant hum.

And he kept touching you, slow and tender, building the moment like a song he didn’t want to end.

Every nerve in your body was awake, every breath a tremor, every heartbeat a drum echoing through your chest. His touch wasn’t just sensation—it was language, a slow, deliberate poem that traced the edges of your skin, mapped the geography of your desire, and pulled it taut until it vibrated with need. You arched toward him without thought, hips lifting, letting the warmth coil tighter, spiraling like fire inside you. The soft friction, the glide of his fingers, the weight of him leaning in close—it all wrapped around you like a current, a tide you had no wish to resist.

Your senses burned with awareness. The faint scent of him clung to your nose and made your stomach flutter. The soft, almost imperceptible rustle of the sheets beneath you, the delicate catch of your breath, the quiet hum of the city outside, all blended into a slow symphony that existed only for the two of you. You could taste the warmth of him in every kiss, every breath that brushed your lips, every soft exhale that trembled through the space between your mouths.

His fingers moved with meticulous care, coaxing, circling, exploring. Every gentle press was matched by your body’s subtle response: a quiver of your thighs, a gasp caught in your throat, a tilt of your hips. You felt the coiling, the slow building of something that had been simmering for weeks, something that had been patient, restrained, savored. And now, finally, it demanded to be released.

“Shh… s’okay” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice was a soft vibration, curling through you, wrapping around the coil of tension in your belly. “Let me have it. I want it”

You clung to him, fingers tangled in his hair, thumb brushing along the tense line of his neck. Your hips moved almost unconsciously, pressing toward him in silent invitation, in rhythm with the slow, deliberate strokes of his fingers. The sensation pooled low and deep, rolling through you like molten silk, gathering intensity with every heartbeat, every gasp, every tremor that escaped your lips.

“Feels… so good… Hugo…” you whispered, voice breathy, fragile, needing. Your chest rose and fell, uneven with anticipation, your back arching toward him as he followed every curve, every shiver, every sigh.

He pressed closer, letting the weight of his body ground you as his fingers drew soft, demanding circles that made your world narrow to a single, exquisite point of sensation. You could feel the heat spiraling, a tight coil that expanded with every brush, every glide, every gentle, insistent movement. Time seemed to stretch, to thicken, to hold you suspended in this moment that was both infinite and fleeting.

“Look at me,” he murmured, his eyes dark, heavy-lidded, almost reverent, catching yours and holding them. You could see the awe in his gaze, the way he marveled at you, at your body, at the way you surrendered to him with nothing but trust and desire.

You shivered, letting your lips brush his in a soft, tremulous kiss. “Ugh- please. Please” you whispered against him.

He hummed, a low, vibrating sound, and let his hands follow the silent commands of your body. Slowly, deliberately, he traced, coaxed, guided, each movement careful, reverent, full of intention. The sensation built, spiraling higher and higher, until it curled through your spine, pooling in your chest, your stomach, your thighs, until it was all-consuming, luminous, unstoppable.

Your climax came in waves, slow and rolling at first, then fast and consuming, each one leaving you trembling, gasping, lost in the heat of it. Your fingers dug into his arms, clutching him as if holding him close could hold the world still. Your voice caught on the edge of every breath, every soft moan spilling into the quiet, and he caught them all, memorized them, let them linger in the warm, electric space between you.

When the tide ebbed, leaving you shivering and glowing, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes soft, lips brushing your temple. “You okay?” he whispered, voice husky, gentle, reverent.

You nodded, still trembling, cheeks flushed. “Yeah…” you giggled, “I’m good” fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

A soft smile curved across his lips, the kind that held secrets and promises. “That was a big surprise” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “But I like it.”

For a long moment, you stayed like that, tangled together, breathing, hearts slowing, letting the heat settle and the quiet deepen. Outside, the faint hum of the city persisted, but inside, there was only the lingering warmth, the soft echo of touch, the intimacy of shared moments held like fragile treasure.

Finally, you shifted slightly, brushing a hand along his arm. “I should… go,” you said softly, voice reluctant, heavy with the desire to stay, to linger in the warmth a little longer.

He caught your gaze, a secret fire sparking in his eyes. “Yeah… but soon. Soon again, right?”

You pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his temple, savoring the warmth of his skin, the quiet tremor in his chest beneath your hand. “Soon,” you whispered, and he mirrored it, the curve of his lips a private promise that made your heart flutter.

You dressed slowly, savoring the memory of his hands, the soft echo of his breath, the lingering pulse of intimacy that clung to you. The sheets smelled faintly of him, of warmth, of moments held too long to let go entirely.

When the door closed softly behind you, you didn’t feel empty—you felt full, aware, alive, carrying the heat, the quiet thrill, the memory of him with you. And you knew, without needing to look back, that he felt the same, that the room still held the weight of your presence, that anticipation lingered like a secret shared between the walls.

As you walked away, a shiver ran through you—not just from the memory of what had happened, but from the thought of next time. That slow, electric intimacy, the careful, reverent exploration, the thrill of wanting and being wanted—would return. And when it did, it would be even more exquisite.

Somewhere behind you, Hugo leaned against the edge of the bed, eyes closed, a small, private smile curling at the corners of his lips. He traced the empty space you had occupied, imagining the warmth of your skin, the curve of your thighs, the tremor of your hips, and the soft, breathy sounds that lingered in his mind.

And in the quiet, he knew the next time would come—slow, intentional, impossible to resist. And he couldn’t wait.

note: wanted to do a tiny little headcannon about sir jr. down there lolll. enjoys guys🤍!!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lewis had a big dick. Everyone knew it. Everyone saw it. Ignoring it was like trying to pretend the sun wasn’t blinding—impossible and frankly, exhausting. Every week, without fail, he went through the same pre-race ritual: a delicate, almost ceremonial adjustment before sliding into his F1 car. You’d watch him from a safe distance, arms crossed, secretly impressed and slightly horrified.

It was like he carried a dangerous weapon between his legs, one that demanded respect, attention, and, apparently, precision engineering. And as his wife, you’d done your fair share of “research.” You knew exactly how much potential chaos it could cause if left unchecked. You knew it was heavy, that it needed to be coaxed, positioned, balanced—a precarious little ecosystem of hardware and pride.

And yet… somehow, other people got to witness it for free. Mechanics, engineers, the occasional cameraman—innocent, unsuspecting bystanders, entirely unqualified for the experience. You were slightly, very slightly, annoyed.

It was yours. Exclusively yours. And the audacity of the world to get a peek? Unforgivable.

You sat on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, typing away while waiting for Lewis to emerge with his final outfit before heading out for the day. He had gone through six different pant options already, deliberating over which pair complemented his outfit best, and honestly, giving him honest feedback while trying to concentrate on work was proving… difficult.

“Babe, just go back to the second pants you had on! Those looked really nice!” you yelled across the living room toward the bedroom.

He appeared almost instantly, striding out with that signature mix of charm and mild exasperation. “No, those make me look stubby! I need all the height I can get. A few NBA players are visiting today, and the last thing I need is to look like I’m three feet tal—”

He froze mid-sentence, abruptly cut off by the shocked, indignant sound of your voice.

“Lewis Carl Davidson,” you said, wide-eyed over your glasses, your tone oscillating somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“What?” he asked, stiffening slightly, clearly aware he was already teetering on dangerous territory, though he didn’t yet know why.

“Absolutely not. Go change those pants right now,” you said, fighting to keep a straight face.

And then… there it was.

A full, unapologetic view of his very prominent dick print outlined in those fitted slacks.

His heart skipped a beat, and then lightened when he saw you trying—and failing—to hold back laughter. He glanced down at himself to see exactly what you were reacting to and promptly burst out laughing, clutching his torso as he bent over slightly in defeat.

“Baby… you cannot be serious right now,” he managed between chuckles.

“I am so serious,” you replied, letting the laughter spill out anyway. “You can’t wear that to work, Lewis. They’re going to arrest you for carrying that weapon.”

“They see this ‘weapon’ every week,” he said, stepping closer, grinning through his laughter. “Surely they’re used to it by now.”

You raised an eyebrow and gestured with your hands, practically theatrically. “And actually… now that you’re standing this close, it looks even worse. This is outrageous. You have to change.”

He froze, staring at you for a beat, a small smile playing on his lips as he realized just how much you cared—how much he must truly love you for actually listening, despite the absurdity of the situation. Then he shook his head slightly and said, still chuckling:

“You’re ridiculous, babe.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, trying to sound stern while your grin betrayed you, “but someone has to protect the public from… hazards like this.”

He laughed again, muttering something about how he’d “never marry anyone else who would publicly scold him for pant crimes,” before turning around and retreating back into the bedroom to swap into something less… arrest-worthy.

tag list: @lewismcqueen @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @amirawrah @jessnotwiththemess @ayeshami @dexastres @kyoshithewriter

note: i’m not back guys don’t get excited lol but i know everyone is getting freaky this month so say thanks to @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro & @amirawrah for encouraging me to turn the dream i had into a fic :) it’s just a little something for my babies. miss you guys. anyway, as always enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tonight had wrung you dry.

Not in the dramatic, stormy way that left you furious or weeping — no, this was a quieter kind of depletion. The kind that began the moment you opened your eyes this morning and knew, instinctively, that the day would drag across your skin like sandpaper. One of those mornings where the sun felt too loud, your clothes too heavy, your own thoughts too crowded. All you had wanted was to remain still, to curl into a cocoon of blankets and silence, to let the world spin without you.

But of course, life — his life — rarely paused.

And so you went. Because even at your lowest, you knew that staying by Lewis’ side, even at some glittering, pretentious business function, was still better than being alone in your own head.

He knew. Of course he knew.

He didn’t question your quietness, didn’t force conversation or tease you out of your mood like others might have tried to. Instead, he became your anchor — his hand finding its familiar resting place on your hip as if drawn there by instinct. He stayed pressed to your side like a secret vow, his touch speaking where words would have felt like intrusion.

His thumb made slow passes against the fabric of your dress, barely-there motions that sent tiny waves of calm through your foggy mind. Occasionally, his hand would drift, gliding up your waist to find your fingers, gently kneading them in his much larger palm. Not demanding anything of you — just affirming you were here. Present. Held.

You barely spoke the entire night. You let the meaningless chatter of wealthy strangers wash over you like static, answering only when necessary. They asked about superficial things — your shoes, your ring, what it was like to be with a man like him. You gave them polite smiles, well-trained responses, though deep down you longed to stab one of the crystal caviar spoons into your own skull just to feel something.

The only thing tethering you to sanity was him.

And Lewis looked unfair tonight — as if God Herself had decided to show off.

His skin glowed beneath the low chandeliers, radiant and bronzed like burnished gold. His lips — plush, perfectly formed. He looked soft enough to sink into. His hair was slicked back with meticulous precision, edges sharp, curls tamed but teasing rebellion. And that suit. Tailored by angels. Worn by sin. Midnight silk hugging muscle and frame like it had been poured onto him.

You could barely look at him without forgetting your own name.

And yet, despite the steady thrum of desire simmering beneath your gloom, you stayed silent — subdued, a slow-burning ember rather than flame.

All you wished, as another soulless conversation droned on nearby, was that this night would finally end.

That someone — anyone — would announce last call so you could finally leave this gilded hell, crawl beneath soft sheets, and breathe again.

Preferably with him wrapped around you.

Another forty-five minutes of smiling through agony. Forty-five minutes of nodding politely at people whose names you didn’t care to know, answering questions that scraped at your soul like dull utensils. Lewis felt it every time your posture wilted a little more, every time your eyelids dipped with exhaustion.

So when the final toast was raised and crystal clinked in fake celebration, Lewis didn’t wait for applause or farewells. He simply took your hand, laced his fingers through yours, and guided you through the crowd without a single backward glance. No goodbyes. No explanations. Just swift escape, like two fugitives fleeing captivity.

The cold night air kissed your skin as he found the back exit, ushering you into the quiet of the SUV waiting just beyond the service corridor. The door shut behind him, sealing you both away, and with it came your first true exhale of the evening — long, shaky, almost reverent.

You didn’t wait for permission.

You simply melted. Sliding across the leather seat until your cheek rested against the place you craved most: his lap. His thigh was warm beneath your skin, firm and solid like the heart of a sun-heated stone. Familiar. Safe.

His hand found your head instantly, as if magnetized — fingers threading into your hair with instinctive tenderness. He stroked slowly, deliberately, palm heavy and warm against your scalp. Soothing. Protective. Possessive.

Your body unclenched one muscle at a time.

You felt sleep reach for you like dark water, pulling you under — gentle, inevitable. Your breathing slowed, syncing with the muted rhythm of the road beneath the tires. You were so close to slipping away when you heard it:

His breath.

Heavy. Controlled. But tight at the edges — like he was fighting something back.

Your lashes fluttered. You tilted your head up just enough to see him, the way he sat with tension in his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple dipped as he swallowed. His fingers flexed against your scalp before trailing lower, brushing the back of your neck.

Then you saw it. His hand reaching for his tie, fingers slipping beneath the knot.

Loosening.

And something low in you stirred.

You didn’t mean for your thighs to press together — it was a reflex, a quiet clench of want, barely noticeable.

Except he noticed everything.

His gaze flicked down to you, soft but alert — assessing, reading you like scripture.

“You tired?” he murmured, voice low and velvety, laced with concern.

Words would give you away too quickly, so you only nodded — small, slow, eyelids still drooping.

“I know,” he sighed, remorse in every syllable. “I’m sorry. I should’ve canceled.”

The apology landed like a caress across your chest — but so did something else, tugging deeper, darker.

“It’s okay,” you managed — voice barely above a whisper, steady but not entirely honest.

Because while your body begged for sleep…

Something far more dangerous was waking beneath it.

The car ride was mercifully short — just long enough to hover between wakefulness and want, but not long enough to drift fully into sleep.

The moment the SUV rolled to a stop, neither of you spoke. No need. You knew the rhythm of nights like this too well — the ones where exhaustion and desire existed side by side, tangled like limbs beneath a bedsheet. Lewis reached for your hand again as you stepped out, guiding you through the soft glow of the porch lights and into the house.

Shoes were toed off. Jewelry slipped free. Your heels were abandoned beside his polished loafers at the door, an unspoken agreement that tonight was not about order or perfection. It was survival.

Neither of you bothered filling the silence with small talk. Instead, you fell into your nightly routine with a kind of sleepy choreography — separating only long enough to freshen up, cleanse tired skin, tend to tired muscles. Soap. Steam. Lotion. Water against face. Toothbrush against teeth. Familiar motions performed with heavy limbs.

Dinner was simple. Reheated leftovers eaten at the counter. Forks scraping quietly against plates. The only sounds were the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of cutlery. No conversation. No questions. Just presence. Just him. Just you.

And in that silence… something bloomed.

The house was dim — lit only by scattered candles left from mornings prior and the silvery ribbon of moonlight spilling across the floors through wide glass windows. It painted everything in shades of gold and blue, turning your quiet exhaustion into something almost sacred.

No words, and yet, so much was being said.

It wasn’t loneliness.

It was intimacy.

Not loud or chaotic, but gentle. Reverent. Like your bodies were speaking to each other without needing your mouths.

And that understanding — that rightness — made the ache between your thighs deepen with slow, creeping insistence.

Lewis noticed.

He always noticed.

He caught you when you passed by the bathroom mirror — catching your stare from the adjoining shower. You hadn’t even realized how intensely you were watching him, the glass fogging slightly around the edges while steam curled around his frame. The muscles of his back flexed under the water, glistening beneath the spray. Droplets slid down his spine like tiny rivers, trailing lower—

Your fingers tightened around the towel at your chest.

You weren’t bold enough to speak.

But your eyes were loud.

And when he glanced sideways — catching your reflection watching him like sweet relief, something in his expression shifted. The corner of his mouth lifted. Subtle. Knowing.

Desire, heavy and patient, coiled in the space between you.

You were both too tired for frenzy. Too weary for the frantic kind of passion that tore clothing and clawed skin.

But God you wanted to touch him.

Softly. Sleepily. Reverently.

And now, judging by the way his gaze lingered a second too long

He wanted to be touched.

It was nearing midnight when you finally reached your bed. Everything felt hazy — not the sharp kind of exhaustion, but the floaty, underwater kind. Like the world had gone muffled around the edges.

Lewis didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights. He only flicked on the bedside lamp — soft amber spilling across sheets in a sleepy glow. You stood there for a moment, bare-faced, bare-legged, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder. He stood on the other side of the bed with his hair tied back into a loose, low bun, curls still damp at the edges. His sweatpants hung slouched around his hips — dark grey, thin enough that the fabric clung softly to his thighs. His chest was bare, tattoos sharp, skin smooth and warm-looking, the kind of warmth that made you want to press your cheek against it and breathe.

You didn’t speak.

He just lifted the blanket on his side and looked at you — eyes heavy, half-lidded. His voice came out low and gravelly with fatigue.

“Come.”

Just one word. But it rolled through you like thunder in slow motion.

You swallowed. Your shoulders tensed. Your knees almost gave out. You obeyed him without even thinking — slipping under the covers, the sheets cool against your skin as you slid closer, inch by inch, drawn to him like tide to shore.

You shifted, turning slightly toward him, instinctively about to tuck your face into the familiar crook of his neck — your safe place — when his hand came up and caught your chin. Gently. Two fingers beneath it, tilting your face up to his.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t rush. Just held you there, his gaze sweeping over your features as if memorizing them all over again. His brows pulled together sweetly, like he was asking a question without needing to voice it.

Is this what you want?

You answered with the smallest nod — slow, certain.

You lifted your chin the rest of the way, closing the tiny distance between you.

And when your lips met, it felt like your souls mended.

Not fire. Not frenzy. Just completion.

His mouth was warm, soft but weighted — sinking into yours with a pressure that made your toes curl beneath the sheets. Your eyelids fluttered shut. His thumb stroked beneath your jaw as he angled you closer, tasting you with slow, deliberate movements. He didn’t devour you. He soothed you. Kiss after kiss, deep and languid, like you had all the time in the world.

A sigh slipped from your chest before you even realized it. His own breath caught in response, a quiet groan rumbling low in his throat — spilling into your mouth like molten gratitude.

Then he reached for your hand beneath the covers.

His fingers found yours easily, threading through until he had you secure in his hold. He guided your arm across the space between your bodies, slow enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted — but you didn’t. Your pulse thrummed hot beneath your skin as he positioned your hand over him.

Even through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, you could feel the firm heat of him, already there, already waiting. Hardness pressing into your palm like a confession.

You froze — a tiny inhale caught between nerves and anticipation.

He deepened the kiss then, as if to steady you. His other hand came up to cradle your cheek, holding you firmly against his mouth.

His lips brushed yours with quiet urgency as he whispered against them, breath warm and shaky:

“You wanna touch it, baby?”

The words fluttered through you like silk.

You nodded, lips still grazing his.

“Yes,” you breathed. Barely sound. More air than voice. “Please.”

A soft sound — approval, relief — rumbled from his chest.

“You can touch it.”

Still kissing you, he reached down with his free hand, tugging loose the knot of his waistband. The fabric relaxed, sliding down just enough. He slipped his hand beneath yours, guiding your fingers beneath the waistband, down past soft fabric.

Until your palm met bare heat.

Thick. Warm. Heavy in your grasp.

Your breath caught. Your body melted deeper into the mattress.

His hand curled around yours — large and sure — wrapping your fingers securely around him, pressing them tight so you could feel every inch of his hardness. He moved your joined hands slowly, just once. A slow glide down, then up, dragging your palm along his smooth, pulsing length.

His hand guided yours with deliberate care, wrapping your fingers around his warmth like he was teaching you something sacred. He moved with patience, letting you feel him — the weight, the heat, the heavy pulse beneath your palm. His breath hitched softly against your lips, but he didn’t rush. He wanted you to take your time.

And it stunned you — how gentle he was being.

He wasn’t usually like this. On most nights, he would take you without hesitation, rough and half-asleep, pulling you to your side and slipping inside you before either of you could think. Quick. Wordless. Familiar in its own right. But this… this was different.

This was offering.

This was closeness.

The way he guided your hand — not forcing, just showing — made something deep inside you twist with need. You loved that about him. How easily you surrendered when he led. In every way. How his direction made you feel safe and wanted all at once. How he knew — better than anyone — how much you needed to touch him. To feel him. Whether wrapped around him or filled by him, it never mattered. It was always more than desire. It was grounding. Healing. Addictive.

He seemed to understand that without a word.

His mouth found yours again — deeper this time. Hungrier. He caught your bottom lip gently between his teeth, breathing into the kiss as his hand tightened around yours, urging you into a steady rhythm. Your body responded instantly, melting beneath both his guidance and his need.

A soft, helpless sound escaped you — half-moan, half-sigh — because suddenly he was everywhere.

His lips consuming yours.

His hand covering yours.

His warmth throbbing beneath your touch.

You around him and him around you.

You whimpered into his kiss.

And he swallowed it whole — deep, gentle, unhurried — as if your need was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

His breath grew heavier against your lips, warm and uneven. You could feel his chest rising quicker now — the steady rhythm you loved turning erratic under your palm. Still, he didn’t rush you. He let you set the pace, even as his body begged otherwise.

You stroked him slowly, guided by the weight of him and the quiet sounds spilling from his throat. The softness of his moans made your body heat from the inside out.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to hover in front of him. Noses brushing, lips barely apart. You wanted to see him.

His lashes were low, his expression hazy, softened by pleasure. His curls had loosened slightly near his temples. His lips were parted, glistening from your kisses. You felt a swell of something warm in your chest — fondness so intense it made your hand squeeze around him tighter without thinking.

He drew a sharp breath.

He whispered, voice hoarse. His hand tightened gently at the back of your head, fingertips grazing your scalp in slow reassurance. “Feels good, baby.”

You nodded, stroking him a little firmer now, movements steady. His hips lifted subtly in your grasp — the smallest show of need. His forehead rested against yours, warmth pressed to warmth.

You could feel his heartbeat in your palm.

“So- good-” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyelids fluttered shut as he exhaled, jaw tense. The sound that followed was low and deep — almost a growl, but softened by restraint. He was fighting to stay calm for you. Not to overwhelm. Not to rush. Letting you take him there at your pace.

You felt a tremor under your touch — a subtle tightening along his abdomen. His thighs tensed. His breathing turned ragged.

He was close.

“You’re right there,” you whispered, stroking him with careful precision, your thumb brushing over his sensitive tip. “Keep going”

He let out a broken sound — half-moan, half-exhale. His hand clenched softly in your hair, but not to control. Just to anchor.

“Baby…” That one word — drenched in need — spilled from him like a confession. His forehead pressed harder to yours, his voice growing uneven.

“Mmm— keep going. Please.” You obeyed, milking him with gentle certainty, every stroke deliberate, loving. His entire body went taut beneath the sheets, breath stuttering as if he was trying to hold on.

But he couldn’t.

His mouth fell open, his spine arched just slightly, and his voice came out raspy and shaky as pleasure overtook him.

“Fuuck… baby…”

Hot release spilled across your hand — thick and warm, coating your fingers as you stroked him through it. His breath hitched, then broke into soft groans as you slowed your pace, coaxing every last wave out of him.

You leaned forward and caught his mouth in a slow kiss — deep, lazy, lingering — keeping him grounded as he trembled lightly beneath your touch. He kissed you back with a different kind of urgency now — grateful, raw, undone.

When his breathing finally steadied, he loosened his hold in your hair and pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were heavy but tender, admiration softening his entire face.

He didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t have to.

The look was thank you.

Without a word, he gently took your hand — the one still damp with him — and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. Then he reached for the discarded sweatpants at the foot of the bed, using them to carefully clean you both.

He tossed them across the room without care and shifted closer.

Completely bare now, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his chest. Skin to skin. Warm and solid and yours.

You nestled into him instantly. Cheek finding the familiar curve of his neck.

He exhaled — slow, content — and pressed his lips to your forehead.

No more words.

Just the sound of your breathing syncing, the shared heat beneath the covers, the quiet knowing.

His hand traced slow circles across your back.

You fell asleep like that.

Held.

Wanted.

Home.